Dmitry Narkisovich Mamin-Sibiryak

(From the stories of an old hunter)

Rainy summer day. I like to wander through the forest in such weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead, where you can dry and warm yourself. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather - mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet from last year's fallen leaves and crumbled pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered in raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns green so brightly and burns with diamond sparks all over. Something festive and joyful is all around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Light Lake, to the familiar watchman on the fishing saime Taras. The rain has already thinned. Gaps appeared on one side of the sky, a little more - and the hot summer sun will appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping cape, which jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the saima nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the creek. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out in a green cap opposite the saima.

My appearance on the cape evoked the guard call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: "Who is coming?" I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary mind and faithful service ...

From afar, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down - it was an old wooden roof hunched over, overgrown with cheerful green grass. A thick growth of willow-herb, sage and “bear pipes” rose around the hut, so that a person approaching the hut could see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley dog ​​flew out of the grass head over heels at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobolko, stop it ... Didn't you recognize it?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He cautiously approached, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony wagged his tail guiltily. Say, it's my fault, I made a mistake - but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some kind of fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the saima, Taras's entire household could be seen: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. In spite of any weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hot and slept on the floorboards. This love of warmth was explained by the respectable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. Sobolko hovered around me, anticipating some kind of life. A light flared up merrily, blowing up a blue wisp of smoke. The rain has already passed. Broken clouds rushed across the sky, dropping occasional drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under the rays of which the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake was quiet, quiet, as it happens only after rain. There was a smell of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloye Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And not without reason old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that embraced here. It's good on the Syme!.. A bright light is burning merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts the eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with a wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camping kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? I thought aloud. - They inspect the tackle in the morning, and now it's noon ... Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking ... Sobolko, where did your owner go?

The smart dog only wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "fishing" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears and a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel, with the difference that the mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. It is necessary to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he saw the owner. Indeed, in the channel, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. That was Taras… He swam standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar – real fishermen all swim like that on their one-tree boats, called “gas chambers” not without reason. When he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, you bastard! - grumbled the old man, urging the beautifully swimming bird. - Go, go ... Here I will give you - to sail away God knows where ... Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully up to the sim, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed for the hut.

Old Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. He walked barefoot and without a hat all summer. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. His tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather he went to

Adopted

(From the stories of an old hunter)

I

Rainy summer day. I like to wander through the forest in such weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead, where you can dry and warm yourself. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather - mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet from last year's fallen leaves and crumbled pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered in raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns green so brightly and burns with diamond sparks all over. Something festive and joyful is all around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Light Lake, to the familiar watchman on the fishing saime Taras. The rain has already thinned. Gaps appeared on one side of the sky, a little more - and the hot summer sun will appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping cape, which jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the saima nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the creek. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out in a green cap opposite the saima.

My appearance on the cape evoked the guard call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: "Who is coming?" I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary mind and faithful service ...

From afar, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down - it was an old wooden roof hunched over, overgrown with cheerful green grass. Around the hut, a dense growth of willow-herb, sage and "bear pipes" rose, so that a person approaching the hut could see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley dog ​​flew out of the grass head over heels at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobolko, stop it ... Didn't you recognize it?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He cautiously approached, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony wagged his tail guiltily. Say, it’s my fault, I made a mistake, but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some kind of fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the saima, Taras's entire household could be seen: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. In spite of any weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hot and slept on the floorboards. This love of warmth was explained by the respectable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. Sobolko hovered around me, anticipating some kind of life. A light flared up merrily, blowing up a blue wisp of smoke. The rain has already passed. Broken clouds rushed across the sky, dropping occasional drops. In some places the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under the rays of which the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake was quiet, as it happens only after rain. There was a smell of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloye Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And not without reason old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that enveloped here. It's good on the Syme!.. A bright light is burning merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts the eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with a wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camping kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? I thought aloud. - They inspect the tackle in the morning, and now it's noon ... Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking ... Sobolko, where did your owner go?

The smart dog only wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "fishing" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears and a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel, with the difference that the mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. It is necessary to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he saw the owner. Indeed, in the channel, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. That was Taras… He swam standing on his feet and deftly worked with one oar – real fishermen all swim like that on their one-tree boats, called “gas chambers” not without reason. When he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, you bastard! - grumbled the old man, urging the beautifully swimming bird. - Go, go ... Here I will give you - to sail away God knows where ... Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully up to the sim, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed for the hut.

II

Old Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. He walked barefoot and without a hat all summer. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. His tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he walked in one shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, sir!

- Where does God come from?

- But he swam for the Foster, for the swan ... Everything here was spinning in the canal, and then suddenly he disappeared ... Well, I'm following him now. Went to the lake - no; swam through the backwaters - no; and he swims behind the island.

“Where did you get it, the swan?”

- And God sent, yes! .. Here the hunters from the masters ran into; well, they shot the swan with the swan, but this one remained. Crawled into the reeds and sits. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid like a child. Of course, I set nets near the reeds, and I caught him. One will disappear, the hawk will be killed, because there is still no real meaning in it. He remained an orphan. So I brought it and keep it. And he, too, got used to it ... Now, soon it will be a month, how we live together. In the morning at dawn it will rise, swim in the canal, feed, and then go home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a close person. The swan hobbled to the very hut and, obviously, was waiting for some kind of handout.

- He will fly away from you, grandfather ... - I noticed.

Why would he fly? And it’s good here: full, water all around ...

- And in winter?

- Overwinter with me in the hut. Enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my saima, saw a swan and said in the same way: “It will fly away if you don’t cut its wings.” But how can you mutilate the bird of God? Let her live as the Lord indicated to her ... One thing is indicated to a man, and another to a bird ... But I will understand why the gentlemen shot the swans. After all, they won’t eat, and so, for mischief ...

The swan understood the old man's words exactly and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- And how is he with Sobolok? I asked.

“At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it. Now the swan takes another piece from Sobolko. The dog will growl at him, and his swan will growl with his wing. It's funny to look at them from the side. And then they will go for a walk together: a swan on the water, and Sobolko on the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, well, but the craft is not that: he almost drowned. And as the swan swims away, Sobolko is looking for him. He sits on the bank and howls ... They say, I'm bored, the dog, without you, my dear friend. So we live together.

I loved the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. Many summer nights have been spent on the saime, and each time you learn something new. Formerly Taras had been a hunter and knew places around fifty miles away, knew every custom of a forest bird and a forest beast; but now he could not go far and knew one of his fish. It is easier to swim in a boat than to walk with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras had a gun only for old times sake, just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, the wolves looked at the saima and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolok. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.

I stayed on sim for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up nets for the night. Svetloe Lake is good, and it is not without reason that it is called Svetly Lake - the water in it is completely transparent, so that you sail in a boat and see the whole bottom at a depth of several sazhens. You can see colorful pebbles, and yellow river sand, and algae, you can see how the fish walks in a “fleece”, that is, a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it adjoined the mountains only on one side, and on the other it went “to the steppe”, where blessed Bashkiria began. The most free places lay around Svetloye Lake, and a brisk mountain river, spilling over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty versts long and about nine versts wide. The depth reached fifteen sazhens in some places... A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen more than once went hungry for several days.

Taras had lived on Svetloye for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, and now he lived as a bean. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandpa? I asked when we were returning from fishing. - Terribly lonely in the forest ...

- One? The master will say the same ... I live here as a prince. I have everything ... And every bird, and fish, and grass. Of course, they can’t speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God's creature ... Everyone has his own order and his own mind. Do you think the fish swims in the water in vain or the bird flies through the forest? No, they care no less than ours ... Avon, look, the swan is waiting for us with Sobolko. Ah, the prosecutor!

The old man was terribly pleased with his Adopted, and in the end all conversations came down to him.

“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Beckon him with food and don’t let him, he won’t go another time. It also has its own character, even though it’s a bird… With Sobolok, he also holds himself very proudly. Just a little, now with a wing, or even with a nose. It is known that the dog will want to play dirty another time, he strives to catch his tail with his teeth, and the swan in his face ... This is also not a toy to grab by the tail.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

“Come back in the autumn,” the old man says in parting. “Then we’ll shoot fish with a spear… Well, we’ll shoot hazel grouses.” Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandfather, I'll come sometime.

When I was leaving, the old man brought me back:

- Look, sir, how the swan played with Sobolok ...

Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood with wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with a screech and bark. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene like a child.

III

The next time I got to Svetloye Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. In some places there was still a yellow leaf on the birch trees. The spruce and pines seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of the summer's vigorous work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed larger, because there was no coastal greenery. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave beat noisily against the shore ...

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed taller, because the tall grass surrounding it had disappeared. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and wagged his tail affectionately from a distance. Taras was at home. He repaired a net for winter fishing.

- Hello, old man!

- Hello, sir!

- Well, how are you?

- Yes, nothing ... In the fall, by the first snow, I fell ill a little. My legs hurt ... By bad weather, it always happens to me.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed now so decrepit and pathetic. However, this happened, as it turned out, not at all from the disease. We talked over tea, and the old man told his grief.

Do you remember, sir, the swan?

- Adopted?

- He is the best ... Ah, the bird was good! .. But again Sobolko and I were left alone ... Yes, the Adopted was gone.

Did the hunters kill you?

- No, he left on his own ... That's how insulting it is to me, sir! He swims on the lake - I call him, he swims up. Learned bird. And after all, she’s completely used to it ... yes! .. The sin came out in frosts. On the migration, a flock of swans descended on Svetloye Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let the bird of God gather with strength: it’s not a close place to fly ... Well, and then sin came out. My Adopted at first avoided the other swans: he swims up to them, and back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home ... Say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. All, then, are talking in their own way, like a bird. Well, and then, I see, my Adopted became homesick ... It's all the same how a person yearns. It will go ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Why, how plaintively it screams ... It will make me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known, a free bird, the blood has affected ...

The old man paused and sighed heavily.

- Well, what is it, grandfather?

- Oh, and don't ask ... I locked him in a hut for the whole day, and then he pestered him. He will stand on one foot at the very door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only now he won’t say in human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They will fly in the warmer direction, but what am I going to do with you here in the winter? Oh, you think the challenge! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear ...

- Why will it disappear?

– But how?.. They grew up in freedom. They, the young ones, were taught by their father and mother to fly. How do you think they are? The swans will grow up - the father and mother will first take them out into the water, and then they will begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they teach: further and further. I have seen with my own eyes how young people are taught to fly. First, they teach alone, then in small flocks, and then they crowd into one big herd. It looks like a soldier being drilled ... Well, my Foster grew up alone and, honestly, did not fly anywhere. Floats on the lake - that's all crafts. Where can he fly? It will be exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear ... Unaccustomed to the distant summer.

The old man fell silent again.

“But I had to let go,” he said sadly. - All the same, I think if I keep him for the winter, he will get bored and wither away. The bird is so special. Well, he released it. My adoptive landed with the herd, swam with him for a day, and in the evening he returned home. So two days sailed. Also, although a bird, it’s hard to part with your home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master ... For the last time he sailed from the shore that way for twenty fathoms, stopped and how, my brother, you will shout in your own way. They say: "Thank you for the bread, for the salt! .." Only I saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I’ll ask him: “Sobolko, where is our Foster?” And Sobolko howl now ... So, he regrets. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend ... I kept dreaming at night that the Fledgling was rinsing around the shore and flapping its wings. I go out - there is no one ...

Here's what happened, sir.

A+A-

Acceptance - Mamin-Sibiryak D.N.

A story about an amazing and touching friendship between a swan and a man. Once, grandfather Taras saved a chick from certain death, raised him and became very attached to the swan. But time passed, the foster child grew up and, one day, a flock of relatives flew to the lake. Although the swan loved his named father, he left his native places and went to warmer lands with other swans ...

Adopted read

Rainy summer day. I like to wander through the forest in such weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead, where you can dry and warm yourself. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather - mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet of last year's fallen leaves and crumbled pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered in raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns green so brightly and burns with diamond sparks all over. Something festive and joyful is all around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Light Lake, to the familiar watchman at the fishing saime (parking lot) Taras. The rain has already thinned. Gaps appeared on one side of the sky, a little more - and the hot summer sun will appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping cape, which jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the saima nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the creek. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out in a green cap opposite the saima.

My appearance on the cape evoked the guard call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: "Who is going?" I love such simple little dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and faithful service.

From afar, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down - it was an old wooden roof hunched over, overgrown with cheerful green grass. A thick growth of willow-herb, sage and “bear pipes” rose around the hut, so that a person approaching the hut could see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was already very close to the hut, a motley dog ​​flew head over heels out of the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.

Sobolko, stop it ... Didn't you recognize it?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He cautiously approached, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony wagged his tail guiltily. Say, it's my fault, I made a mistake - but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some kind of fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the saima, Taras's entire household could be seen: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. In spite of any weather, every day he hotly heated the Russian stove and slept on the floorboards. This love of warmth was explained by the respectable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. Sobolko hovered around me, anticipating some kind of life. A light flared up merrily, blowing up a blue wisp of smoke. The rain has already passed. Broken clouds rushed across the sky, dropping occasional drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under the rays of which the wet grass seemed to smoke.

The water in the lake was quiet, quiet, as it happens only after rain. There was a smell of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloye Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And not without reason old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that enveloped here. Good on sime! A bright light burns merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts the eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with a wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camping kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

Where would he go? I thought aloud. - They inspect the gear in the morning, and now it's noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking. Sobolko, where did your master go?

The smart dog only wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "fishing" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, and a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel, with the difference that the mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. It is necessary to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he saw the owner. Indeed, in the channel, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. This was Taras. He swam, standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all swim like that on their one-tree boats, called “gas chambers” for good reason. When he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

Go home, fool! - grumbled the old man, urging the beautifully swimming bird. - Get on, get on. Here I will give you - to swim away God knows where. Go home, fool!

The swan swam beautifully up to the sim, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed for the hut.

Old Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. He walked barefoot and without a hat all summer. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. His tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he walked in one shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

Hello Taras!

Hello, barin!

Where does God bring it from?

But he swam for the Foster, for the swan. Everything here was spinning in the channel, and then suddenly disappeared. Well, I'm behind him now. Went to the lake - no; swam through the backwaters - no; and he swims behind the island.

Where did you get it, the swan?

And God sent, yes! Here the hunters from the masters ran into; well, they shot the swan with the swan, but this one remained. Crawled into the reeds and sits. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid like a child. Of course, I set nets near the reeds, and I caught him. One will disappear, the hawk will be killed, because there is still no real meaning in it. He remained an orphan. So I brought it and keep it. And he's used to it too. Now it will soon be a month since we live together. In the morning, at dawn, it rises, swims in the canal, feeds, and then goes home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a close person. The swan hobbled to the very hut and, obviously, was waiting for some kind of handout.

He will fly away from you, grandfather, - I noticed.

Why should he fly? And it’s good here: full, water all around.

And in winter?

Overwinter with me in the hut. Enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my saima, saw a swan and said the same way: “It will fly away if you don’t cut its wings.” But how can you mutilate the bird of God? Let her live as the Lord indicated to her ... One thing was indicated to a man, and another to a bird ... I don’t understand why the gentlemen shot the swans. After all, they won’t eat, but just for mischief.

The swan understood the old man's words exactly and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

And how is he with Sobolok? I asked.

At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it. Now the swan takes another piece from Sobolko. The dog will grumble at him, and his swan will growl with his wing. It's funny to look at them from the side. And then they go for a walk together: a swan on the water, and Sobolko on the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, well, but the craft is not right: he almost drowned. And as the swan swims away, Sobolko is looking for him. He sits on the bank and howls. Say, I'm bored, dog, without you, my dear friend. So we live together.

I love the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. Many summer nights had to spend on the sim, and every time you learn something new. Formerly Taras was a hunter and knew the places about fifty miles around, knew every custom of a forest bird and a forest beast; but now he could not go far and knew one of his fish. It is easier to swim in a boat than to walk with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras had a gun only for old times sake, just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, the wolves looked at the saima and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolok. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.

I stayed on sim for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up nets for the night. Svetloe Lake is good, and it is not for nothing that it is called Svetly Lake, because the water in it is completely transparent, so that you sail in a boat and see the whole bottom at a depth of several sazhens. You can see colorful pebbles, and yellow river sand, and algae, you can see how the fish walks in a “fleece”, that is, a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it adjoined the mountains only on one side, and on the other it went “to the steppe”, where blessed Bashkiria began. The most free places lay around Svetloye Lake, and a brisk mountain river came out of it, spilling over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty versts long and about nine versts wide. The depth reached fifteen sazhens in some places. A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen more than once went hungry for several days.

Taras had lived on Svetloye for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, and now he lived as a bean. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.

Are you bored, grandpa? I asked when we were returning from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest.

One? The barin will say the same. I live here prince by prince. I have everything. And every bird, and fish, and grass. Of course, they do not know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God's creature. Everyone has their own order and their own mind. Do you think a fish swims in the water or a bird flies in the forest in vain? No, they care no less than ours. Avon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor!

The old man was terribly pleased with his Adopted, and in the end all conversations came down to him.

A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Beckon him with food and don’t let him, another time he won’t go. It also has its own character, even though it is a bird. With Sobolok, he also holds himself very proudly. Just a little, now with a wing, or even with a nose. It is known that the dog will want to mischief another time, he strives to catch his tail with his teeth, and the swan in his face. This is also not a toy to grab by the tail.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

Already come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will fish with spears. Well, let's shoot grouse. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

Okay, grandpa, I'll come sometime.

When I was leaving, the old man brought me back:

Look, sir, how the swan played with Sobolok.

Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood with wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with a screech and bark. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene like a child.

The next time I got to Svetloye Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. Somewhere on the birches there was still a yellow leaf. The firs and pines seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of the summer's vigorous work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed large, because there was no coastal greenery. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave beat noisily against the shore.

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed taller, because the tall grass surrounding it had disappeared. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and wagged his tail affectionately from a distance. Taras was at home. He repaired a net for winter fishing.

Hello old man!

Hello, barin!

Well, how are you?

Never mind. In the autumn, by the first snow, he fell ill a little. Legs hurt. It always happens to me when it's bad weather.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed now so decrepit and pathetic. However, this happened, as it turned out, not at all from the disease. We talked over tea, and the old man told his grief.

Do you remember, sir, the swan?

Adopted?

He is. Ah, the bird was good! And here again Sobolko and I were left alone. Yes, there was no Adoptive.

Hunters killed?

No, he left. That's how insulting it is to me, sir! It seems that I didn’t look after him, didn’t I hang around! Feeding by hand. He was walking towards me. He swims on the lake - I will call him, he will swim up. Learned bird. And I'm quite used to it. Yes! Already on the frost sin came out. On the migration, a flock of swans descended on Svetloye Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let the bird of God gather with strength: it is not a close place to fly. Well, here comes the sin. My Priemysh at first avoided the other swans: he would swim up to them, and back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home. Say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. All, then, are talking in their own way, like a bird. Well, and then, I see, my Adopted became homesick. It's all the same how a person yearns. It will go ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Yes, it screams so plaintively. It will make me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known, a free bird, the blood had an effect.

The old man paused and sighed heavily.

Well, what about it, grandpa?

Ah, don't ask. I locked him in a hut for the whole day, so he pestered him here. He will stand on one foot to the very door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only now he won’t say in human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They will fly to the warm side, but what am I going to do with you here in the winter? Oh, you think the challenge! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear.

Why will it disappear?

But how? Those grew up in freedom. They are young, who, father and mother taught to fly. How do you think they are? The swans will grow up - the father and mother will first take them to the water, and then they will begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they teach: further and further. I have seen with my own eyes how young people are taught to fly. First, they teach alone, then in small flocks, and then they crowd into one big herd. It looks like a soldier being drilled. Well, my Foster grew up alone and, honestly, did not fly anywhere. Floats on the lake - that's all crafts. Where can he fly? It will be exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear. Unaccustomed to a long flight.

The old man fell silent again.

And I had to release - with sadness for

he said. - All the same, I think if I keep him for the winter, he will get bored and wither away. The bird is so special. Well, he released it. My adoptive landed with the herd, swam with him for a day, and in the evening he returned home. So two days sailed. Also, although a bird, it’s hard to part with your home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master. For the last time, he sailed from the shore for twenty fathoms, stopped and how, my brother, you will shout in your own way. They say: "Thank you for the bread, for the salt!" Only I saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I’ll ask him: “Sobolko, where is our Foster?” And Sobolko howl now. So he regrets. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend. At night I kept dreaming that Priemysh was rinsing around the shore and flapping his wings. I go out - there is no one.

Here's what happened, sir.

Published: Mishkoy 12.01.2018 11:55 24.05.2019

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Rainy summer day. I like to wander through the forest in such weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead, where you can dry and warm yourself. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather - mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet from last year's fallen leaves and crumbled pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered in raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns green so brightly and burns with diamond sparks all over. Something festive and joyful is all around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Light Lake, to the familiar watchman on the fishing saime Taras. The rain has already thinned. Gaps appeared on one side of the sky, a little more - and the hot summer sun will appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping cape, which jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the saima nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the creek. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out in a green cap opposite the saima.

My appearance on the cape evoked the guard call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: "Who is coming?" I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary mind and faithful service ...

From afar, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down - it was an old wooden roof hunched over, overgrown with cheerful green grass. A thick growth of willow-herb, sage and “bear pipes” rose around the hut, so that a person approaching the hut could see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley dog ​​flew out of the grass head over heels at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobolko, stop it ... Didn't you recognize it?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He cautiously approached, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony wagged his tail guiltily. Say, it's my fault, I made a mistake - but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some kind of fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the saima, Taras's entire household could be seen: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. In spite of any weather, every day he hotly heated the Russian stove and slept on the floorboards. This love of warmth was explained by the respectable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. Sobolko hovered around me, anticipating some kind of life. A light flared up merrily, blowing up a blue wisp of smoke. The rain has already passed. Broken clouds rushed across the sky, dropping occasional drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under the rays of which the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake was quiet, quiet, as it happens only after rain. There was a smell of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloye Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And not without reason old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that embraced here. It's good on the Syme!.. A bright light is burning merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts the eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with a wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

Rainy summer day. I like to wander through the forest in such weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead, where you can dry and warm yourself. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather - mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet from last year's fallen leaves and crumbled pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered in raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns green so brightly and burns with diamond sparks all over. Something festive and joyful is all around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Light Lake, to the familiar watchman at the fishing saime (parking lot) Taras. The rain has already thinned. Gaps appeared on one side of the sky, a little more - and the hot summer sun will appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping cape, which jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the saima nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the creek. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out in a green cap opposite the saima.

My appearance on the cape evoked the watchful call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: "Who is going?" I love such simple little dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and faithful service.

From afar, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down - it was an old wooden roof hunched over, overgrown with cheerful green grass. Around the hut, a dense growth of willow-herb, sage and "bear pipes" rose, so that a person approaching the hut could see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was already very close to the hut, a motley dog ​​flew head over heels out of the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.

Sobolko, stop it... Don't you know?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He cautiously approached, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony wagged his tail guiltily. Say, it's my fault, I made a mistake - but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some kind of fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the saima, Taras's entire household could be seen: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. In spite of any weather, every day he hotly heated the Russian stove and slept on the floorboards. This love of warmth was explained by the respectable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. "Even before the Frenchman," as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. Sobolko hovered around me, anticipating some kind of life. A light flared up merrily, blowing up a blue wisp of smoke. The rain has already passed. Broken clouds rushed across the sky, dropping occasional drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under the rays of which the wet grass seemed to smoke.

The water in the lake was quiet, quiet, as it happens only after rain. There was a smell of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloye Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And not without reason old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that enveloped here. Good on sime! A bright light burns merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts the eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with a wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camping kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

Where would he go? I thought aloud. - They inspect the gear in the morning, and now it's noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking. Sobolko, where did your master go?

The smart dog only wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "fishing" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, and a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel, with the difference that the mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to "bark" a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. It is necessary to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he saw the owner. Indeed, in the channel, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. This was Taras. He swam, standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all swim like that on their one-tree boats, called, not without reason, "gas chambers". When he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

Go home, fool! - grumbled the old man, urging the beautifully swimming bird. - Get on, get on. Here I will give you - to swim away God knows where. Go home, fool!

The swan swam beautifully up to the sim, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed for the hut.

Old Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. He walked barefoot and without a hat all summer. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. His tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he walked in one shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

Hello Taras!

Hello, barin!

Where does God bring it from?

- But he swam for the Foster, for the swan. Everything here was spinning in the channel, and then suddenly disappeared. Well, I'm behind him now. Went to the lake - no; swam through the backwaters - no; and he swims behind the island.

Where did you get it, the swan?

And God sent, yes! Here the hunters from the masters ran into; well, they shot the swan with the swan, but this one remained. Crawled into the reeds and sits. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid like a child. Of course, I set nets near the reeds, and I caught him. One will disappear, the hawk will be killed, because there is still no real meaning in it. He remained an orphan. So I brought it and keep it. And he's used to it too. Now it will soon be a month since we live together. In the morning, at dawn, it rises, swims in the canal, feeds, and then goes home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a close person. The swan hobbled to the very hut and, obviously, was waiting for some kind of handout.

He will fly away from you, grandfather, - I noticed.

Why should he fly? And it’s good here: full, water all around.

And in winter?

Overwinter with me in the hut. Enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my saima, saw a swan and said the same way: "It will fly away if you don't cut its wings." But how can you mutilate the bird of God? Let her live as the Lord indicated to her ... One thing was indicated to a man, and another to a bird ... I don’t understand why the gentlemen shot the swans. After all, they won’t eat, but just for mischief.

The swan understood the old man's words exactly and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

And how is he with Sobolok? I asked.

At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it. Now the swan takes another piece from Sobolko. The dog will grumble at him, and his swan will growl with his wing. It's funny to look at them from the side. And then they go for a walk together: a swan on the water, and Sobolko on the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, well, but the craft is not right: he almost drowned. And as the swan swims away, Sobolko is looking for him. He sits on the bank and howls. Say, I'm bored, dog, without you, my dear friend. So we live together.

I love the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. Many summer nights had to spend on the sim, and every time you learn something new. Formerly Taras was a hunter and knew the places about fifty miles around, knew every custom of a forest bird and a forest beast; but now he could not go far and knew one of his fish. It is easier to swim in a boat than to walk with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras had a gun only for old times sake, just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, the wolves looked at the saima and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolok. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.

I stayed on sim for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up nets for the night. Svetloe Lake is good, and it is not for nothing that it is called Svetly Lake, because the water in it is completely transparent, so that you sail in a boat and see the whole bottom at a depth of several sazhens. You can see colorful pebbles, and yellow river sand, and algae, you can see how the fish walks in a "fleece", that is, a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it adjoined the mountains only on one side, and on the other it went "to the steppe", where blessed Bashkiria began. The most free places lay around Svetloye Lake, and a brisk mountain river came out of it, spilling over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty versts long and about nine versts wide. The depth reached fifteen sazhens in some places. A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen more than once went hungry for several days.

Taras had lived on Svetloye for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, and now he lived as a bean. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandpa? I asked when we were returning from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest.

One? The barin will say the same. I live here prince by prince. I have everything. And every bird, and fish, and grass. Of course, they do not know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God's creature. Everyone has their own order and their own mind. Do you think a fish swims in the water or a bird flies in the forest in vain? No, they care no less than ours. Avon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor!

The old man was terribly pleased with his Adopted, and in the end all conversations came down to him.

A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Beckon him with food and don’t let him, another time he won’t go. It also has its own character, even though it is a bird. With Sobolok, he also holds himself very proudly. Just a little, now with a wing, or even with a nose. It is known that the dog will want to mischief another time, he strives to catch his tail with his teeth, and the swan in his face. This is also not a toy to grab by the tail.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

Already come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will fish with spears. Well, let's shoot grouse. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

Okay, grandpa, I'll come sometime.

When I was leaving, the old man brought me back:

Look, sir, how the swan played with Sobolok.

Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood with wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with a screech and bark. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene like a child.

The next time I got to Svetloye Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. Somewhere on the birches there was still a yellow leaf. The firs and pines seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of the summer's vigorous work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed large, because there was no coastal greenery. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave beat noisily against the shore.

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed taller, because the tall grass surrounding it had disappeared. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and wagged his tail affectionately from a distance. Taras was at home. He repaired a net for winter fishing.

Hello old man!

Hello, barin!

Well, how are you?

Never mind. In the autumn, by the first snow, he fell ill a little. Legs hurt. It always happens to me when it's bad weather.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed now so decrepit and pathetic. However, this happened, as it turned out, not at all from the disease. We talked over tea, and the old man told his grief.

Do you remember, sir, the swan?

Adopted?

He is. Ah, the bird was good! And here again Sobolko and I were left alone. Yes, there was no Adoptive.

Hunters killed?

No, he left. That's how insulting it is to me, sir! It seems that I didn’t look after him, didn’t I hang around! Feeding by hand. He was walking towards me. He swims on the lake - I will call him, he will swim up. Learned bird. And I'm quite used to it. Yes! Already on the frost sin came out. On the migration, a flock of swans descended on Svetloye Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let the bird of God gather with strength: it is not a close place to fly. Well, here comes the sin. My Priemysh at first avoided the other swans: he would swim up to them, and back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home. Say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. All, then, are talking in their own way, like a bird. Well, and then, I see, my Adopted became homesick. It's all the same how a person yearns. It will go ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Yes, it screams so plaintively. It will make me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known, a free bird, the blood had an effect.

The old man paused and sighed heavily.

Well, what about it, grandpa?

Ah, don't ask. I locked him in a hut for the whole day, so he pestered him here. He will stand on one foot to the very door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only now he won’t say in a human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They will fly in the warm direction, but what will I do with you here in the winter?” Oh, you think the challenge! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear.

Why will it disappear?

But how? Those grew up in freedom. They are young, who, father and mother taught to fly. How do you think they are? The swans will grow up - the father and mother will first take them to the water, and then they will begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they teach: further and further. I have seen with my own eyes how young people are taught to fly. First, they teach alone, then in small flocks, and then they crowd into one big herd. It looks like a soldier being drilled. Well, my Foster grew up alone and, honestly, did not fly anywhere. Floats on the lake - that's all crafts. Where can he fly? It will be exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear. Unaccustomed to a long flight.

The old man fell silent again.

But I had to let it out,” he said sadly. - All the same, I think if I keep him for the winter, he will get bored and wither away. The bird is so special. Well, he released it. My adoptive landed with the herd, swam with him for a day, and in the evening he returned home. So two days sailed. Also, although a bird, it’s hard to part with your home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master. For the last time, he sailed from the shore for twenty fathoms, stopped and how, my brother, you will shout in your own way. They say: "Thank you for the bread, for the salt!" Only I saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I'll ask him: "Sobolko, where is our Foster?" And Sobolko howl now. So he regrets. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend. At night I kept dreaming that Priemysh was rinsing around the shore and flapping his wings. I go out - there is no one.

Here's what happened, sir.